Blown to Bits: The Lonely Man of Rakata, the Malay Archipelago by R. M. Ballantyne (red novels TXT) 📖

rafter, and the miserable little thing fell with a shriek and a flop into the rice-dish!

“Git out o’ dat—you scoundril!” exclaimed Moses, but the order was needless, for the monkey bounced out of it like india-rubber and sought to hide its confusion in the thatch, while Moses helped himself to some more of the rice, which, he said, was none the worse for being monkeyfied!

At last our travellers found themselves in the town of Telok Betong, where, being within forty-five miles of Krakatoa, the hermit could both see and hear that his island-home was in violent agitation; tremendous explosions occurring frequently, while dense masses of smoke were ascending from its craters.

“I’m happy to find,” said the hermit, soon after their arrival in the town, “that the peak of Rakata, on the southern part of the island where my cave lies, is still quiet and has shown no sign of breaking out. And now I shall go and see after my canoe.”

“Do you think it safe to venture to visit your cave?” asked Nigel.

“Well, not absolutely safe,” returned the hermit with a peculiar smile, “but, of course, if you think it unwise to run the risk of—”

“I asked a simple question, Van der Kemp, without any thought of myself,” interrupted the youth, as he flushed deeply.

“Forgive me, Nigel,” returned the hermit quickly and gravely, “it is but my duty to point out that we cannot go there without running some risk.”

“And it is my duty to point out,” retorted his hurt friend, “that when any man, worthy of the name, agrees to follow another, he agrees to accept all risks.”

To this the hermit vouchsafed no further reply than a slight smile and nod of intelligence. Thereafter he went off alone to inquire about his canoe, which, it will be remembered, his friend, the captain of the steamer, had promised to leave for him at this place.

Telok Betong, which was one of the severest sufferers by the eruption of 1883, is a small town at the head of Lampong Bay, opposite to the island of Krakatoa, from which it is between forty and fifty miles distant. It is built on a narrow strip of land at the base of a steep mountain, but little above the sea, and is the chief town of the Lampong Residency, which forms the most southerly province of Sumatra. At the time we write of, the only European residents of the place were connected with Government. The rest of the population was composed of a heterogeneous mass of natives mingled with a number of Chinese, a few Arabs, and a large fluctuating population of traders from Borneo, Celebes, New Guinea, Siam, and the other innumerable isles of the archipelago. These were more or less connected with prahus laden with the rich and varied merchandise of the eastern seas. As each man in the town had been permitted to build his house according to his own fancy, picturesque irregularity was the agreeable result. It may be added that, as each man spoke his own language in his own tones, Babel and noise were the consequence.

In a small hut by the waterside the hermit found the friend—a Malay—to whom his canoe had been consigned, and, in a long low shed close by, he found the canoe itself, with the faithful Spinkie in charge.

“Don’t go near the canoe till you’ve made friends with the monkey,” said the Malay in his own tongue, as he was about to put the key in the door.

“Why not?” asked the hermit.

“Because it is the savagest brute I ever came across,” said the man. “It won’t let a soul come near the canoe. I would have killed it long ago if the captain of the steamer had not told me you wished it to be taken great care of. There, look out! The vixen is not tied up.”

He flung open the shed-door and revealed Spinkie seated in his old place, much deteriorated in appearance and scowling malevolently.

The instant the poor creature heard its master’s voice and saw his form—for his features must have been invisible against the strong light—the scowl vanished from its little visage. With a shriek of joy it sprang like an acrobat from a spring-board and plunged into the hermit’s bosom—to the alarm of the Malay, who thought this was a furious attack.

We need not say that Van der Kemp received his faithful little servant kindly, and it was quite touching to observe the monkey’s intense affection for him. It could not indeed wag its tail like a dog, but it put its arms round its master’s neck with a wondrously human air, and rubbed its little head in his beard and whiskers, drawing itself back now and then, putting its black paws on his cheeks, turning his face round to the light and opening its round eyes wide—as well as its round little mouth—as if to make sure of his identity—then plunging into the whiskers again, and sometimes, when unable to contain its joy, finding a safety-valve in a little shriek.

When the meeting and greeting were over, Van der Kemp explained that he would require his canoe by daybreak the following morning, ordered a few provisions to be got ready, and turned to leave.

“You must get down, Spinkie, and watch the canoe for one night more,” said the hermit, quietly.

But Spinkie did not seem to perceive the necessity, for he clung closer to his master with a remonstrative, croak.

“Get down, Spinkie,” said the hermit firmly, “and watch the canoe.”

The poor beast had apparently learned that Medo-persic law was not more unchangeable than Van der Kemp’s commands! At all events it crept down his arm and leg, waddled slowly over the floor of the shed with bent back and wrinkled brow, like a man of ninety, and took up its old position on the deck, the very personification of superannuated woe.

The hermit patted its head gently, however, thus relieving its feelings, and probably introducing hope into its little heart before leaving. Then he returned to his friends and bade them prepare for immediate departure.

It was the night of the 24th of August, and as the eruptions of the volcano appeared to be getting more and more violent, Van der Kemp’s anxiety to reach his cave became visibly greater.

“I have been told,” said the hermit to Nigel, as they went down with Moses to the place where the canoe had been left, “the history of Krakatoa since we left. A friend informs me that a short time after our departure the eruptions subsided a little, and the people here had ceased to pay much attention to them, but about the middle of June the volcanic activity became more violent, and on the 19th, in particular, it was observed that the vapour-column and the force of the explosions were decidedly on the increase.”

“At Katimbang, from which place the island can be seen, it was noticed that a second column of vapour was ascending from the centre of the island, and that the appearance of Perboewatan had entirely changed, its conspicuous summit having apparently been blown away. In July there were some explosions of exceptional violence, and I have now no doubt that it was these we heard in the interior of this island when we were travelling hither, quite lately. On the 11th of this month, I believe, the island was visited in a boat by a government officer, but he did not land, owing to the heavy masses of vapour and dust driven about by the wind, which also prevented him from making a careful examination, but he could see that the forests of nearly the whole island have been destroyed—only a few trunks of blighted trees being left standing above the thick covering of pumice and dust. He reported that the dust near the shore was found to be twenty inches thick.”

“If so,” said Nigel, “I fear that the island will be no longer fit to inhabit.”

“I know not,” returned the hermit sadly, in a musing tone. “The officer reported that there is no sign of eruption at Rakata, so that my house is yet safe, for no showers of pumice, however deep, can injure the cave.”

Nigel was on the point of asking his friend why he was so anxious to revisit the island at such a time, but, recollecting his recent tiff on that subject, refrained. Afterwards, however, when Van der Kemp was settling accounts with the Malay, he put the question to Moses.

“I can’t help wondering,” he said, “that Van der Kemp should be so anxious to get back to his cave just now. If he were going in a big boat to save some of his goods and chattels I could understand it, but the canoe, you know, could carry little more than her ordinary lading.”

“Well, Massa Nadgel,” said Moses, “it’s my opinion dat he wants to go back ’cause he’s got an uncommon affekshnit heart.”

“How? Surely you don’t mean that his love of the mere place is so strong that—”

“No, no, Massa Nadgel—’snot dat. But he was awrful fond ob his wife an’ darter, an’ I know he’s got a photogruff ob ’em bof togidder, an’ I t’ink he’d sooner lose his head dan lose dat, for I’ve seed him look at ’em for hours, an’ kiss ’em sometimes w’en he t’ought I was asleep.”

The return of the hermit here abruptly stopped the conversation. The canoe was carried down and put into the water, watched with profound interest by hundreds of natives and traders, who were all more or less acquainted with the hermit of Rakata.

It was still daylight when they paddled out into Lampong Bay, but the volumes of dust which rose from Krakatoa—although nearly fifty miles off—did much to produce an unusually early twilight.

“Goin’ to be bery dark, massa,” remarked Moses as they glided past the shipping. “Shall I light de lamp?”

“Do, Moses, but we shan’t need it, for as we get nearer home the volcanic fires will light us on our way.”

“De volcanic dust is a-goin’ to powder us on our way too, massa. Keep your hands out o’ the way, Spinkie,” said the negro as he fixed a small oil-lamp to the mast, and resumed his paddle.

“After we get out a bit the wind will help us,” said the hermit.

“Yes, massa, if he don’t blow too strong,” returned Moses, as a squall came rushing down the mountains and swept over the bay, ruffling its now dark waters into foaming wavelets.

Altogether, what with the increasing darkness and the hissing squall, and the night-voyage before them, and the fires of Krakatoa which were now clearly visible on the horizon, Nigel Roy felt a more eerie sensation in his breast than he ever remembered to have experienced in all his previous life, but he scorned to admit the fact—even to himself, and said, mentally, that it was rather romantic than otherwise!

Just then there burst upon their ears the yell of a steam-whistle, and a few moments later a steamer bore straight down on them, astern.

“Steamer ahoy!” shouted Van der Kemp. “Will ye throw us a rope?”

“Ay! ay!—ease ’er!—stop ’er! where are ’ee bound for?” demanded an unmistakably English voice.

“Krakatoa!” replied the hermit. “Where are you?”

“Anjer, on the Java coast. Do ’ee want to be smothered, roasted, and blown up?” asked the captain, looking down on the canoe as it ranged alongside the dark hull.

“No, we want to get home.”

“Home! Well, you’re queer fellows in a queer eggshell for such waters. Every man to his taste. Look out for the rope!”

“All right, cappen,” cried Moses as he caught the coil.

Next moment the steamer went ahead, and the canoe ploughed over the Sunda Straits at the rate of thirteen miles an hour, with her sharp prow high out of the water, and the stern correspondingly low. The voyage, which would have otherwise cost our three travellers a long laborious night and part of next day, was by this means so greatly shortened that when daybreak arrived they were not